The Coda
by LilNightingale
Summary: When a beaten down writer finds himself hitting rock bottom, he does all he can in his power to put an end to his writer's block. *Just barely inspired by the New Grounds game, The Body. *Contains mature content about death/murder/suicide.
1. If You Can't

_Finally._

The man brought his gaze to the sight before him, a sight _he_ had created. The walls surrounding them had once been the neutral white found in homes, now were painted red.

 _She had always loved red, hadn't she?_

A saddened smile crossed his face for a brief moment, before being carried away by a sigh. He knelt down. Brought a hand into those lovely dark curls of hers, his short finger nails just brushing her scalp. She had always loved that, as well, for him to play with her hair and lightly scratch her scalp. He had nicknamed her Kitty long ago, for she had acted just like a cat they had once had together. His fingers curled tighter in her hair, gathering the tresses in his grasp.

Then he stood.

And her head came with him.

* * *

'Ello, loves!

Just a story that came to mind, and I wanted to get it down. It might be short, might be long, eh.

This will happen as I think of it, and hopefully shouldn't connect to any other characters of any other story and such.

Thank you for reading! (:


	2. Wake Up From

Work was truly dreary for an author with writer's block.

To sit and ponder, while staring at a screen with only three words, was self inflicted torture.

"And then she..." He gave a loud sigh, sitting back in his leather chair as his hands found hold in his hair. And then she what? And then she backed off the edge? Turned around and kissed Prince Charming? Jumped?

"I hate suicide scenes," He grumbled as he jammed his elbow into the arm rest to his right, supporting his chin as his scowl deepened. They could be so utterly pathetic, but yet, it was such a scene that had brought him to the Best Seller's list only a few short years ago, and that had been him winging it. A quick search online would bring up fan art of the scene, him on talk shows in button downs and ties to speak of how he created such a moment. A moment he didn't remember creating.

His eyes locked in on the bottle of Jack Daniel's to his left. There was perhaps enough left in it for a shot, it had been full yesterday afternoon. Old No. 7 had been the one to write the scene, not him. He had tried desperately to recreate the magic he had made before in his last book, without the help of the sour mash whiskey, to no avail. Boxes of _The Given_ still sat in the guest room closet, their navy covers and white text collecting dust. _Trust Fall_ hadn't had such a chance, he owned the first two copies while the rest hadn't even been able to reach his home, furthermore shelves. They sold out online before even major book stores could get their hands on it again.

All for that suicide scene

It had been nothing special, a girl and her Romeo duked it out after she found him cheating on her. And she killed the other woman. And eventually, herself.

To him it was nothing, to others it was gold. Was it his words? How he had, "... taken on the mindset of someone truly experiencing such a struggle..." ? As his eyes drifted back to the screen before him, where another girl and her Romeo were at odds, he felt nothing but annoyance. No amount of liquor was going to bring those words back to him, it seemed. He had thought himself to be meant for writing, afterall, who has a best seller as their first book? Apparently he was to be a one shot wonder, he finally decided, as he clicked his mouse over _Save As_. A soft grin crossed his features, he had also decided to title the book the same, for no other reason than to humor himself when he needed to save chapters. It certainly worked.

Petite hands fell onto his shoulders, and a soft groan escaped him. While his had no magic, hers certainly did. His head fell back against one of her forearms, his eyes finding the face of a pixie cut blonde. With expressive eyes and pouting lips, she was stunning. His hand reached back to catch one of hers and he slowly turned his chair to face her, the wheels underneath slightly turning with the motion before he dragged her to sit on his lap. His other hand found its self busy in her short hair, short nails running across her scalp. It was such a familiar motion.

Her own free hand had come back to his shoulder, gently working out a knot it had found. He didn't speak, he didn't want her to smell the alcohol that was sure to be on his breath, on top of catching the sight of the bottle on his desk. She would be furious again, and he didn't want to have to deal with an angry tiny woman in his state.

It wouldn't end well.

Instead they simply sat there, gazing into each others eyes. Eventually she reached past the chair to finish typing the document title for him, he had stopped in the middle of typing _Save As: Chapter Seven._ She clicked out of the window, and in another moment the sound of the computer running slowed to a stop as she pressed on the power button. He knew she was worried with how often he was cooped up in his office, though she never spoke it, her actions were enough.

"It's nearly nine o'clock, are you ready to eat yet?" What had she made that night? ... Lasagna, that's right. His favorite, but he had though himself to be on to something when it had been done at six. He gave a small nod, watching her stand up from his lap. Her hands caught his, and he let her drag him up with her. She lead him from his office, down the hall and into the kitchen. The dish still sat on the counter, with a corner piece cut out and gone. She must have ate. Another piece appeared to be gone, and he heard the microwave give a low beep. She dropped his hands to grab the warmed plate and a fork from he drawer as he shuffled to a stool at the counter, plopping himself in it as she set the dish before him.

He ate slowly, his eyes never leaving the vase of day old tulips before him. It was the tail end of spring, and he knew within a week they would be replaced for a couple of sunflowers, and changing every few weeks until the end of September, where then it would have a base of acorns and be filled with her favorite red dahlia's.

 _She's so predictable._

"Have you gotten any farther in the book yet?" He replied with a shrug, and set his fork down on the empty plate. The room was quiet again, even as she took his dishes to the sink to rinse, before setting them in the dish washer. The machine ran with a low hum once she was done, he knew they would be put away by eleven. She had a routine, while he simply didn't.


End file.
